Memoriam
by Glisseo
Summary: Lily Evans dies on October 31st, 1981. From September 1st 1977, her life goes through a series of extremely significant changes. A lot can happen in four years.
1. Prologue

**_"Love and magic have a great deal in common. They enrich the soul, delight the heart. And they both take practice."_**

When Ernest Evans, a gangly, rather horse-faced young man with a passion for dreaming, set off around the world in search of legends and evidence of magic, he had no idea that he would stumble upon someone who was looking for that exact same thing.

Anthea, a bewitchingly beautiful girl, with startlingly green eyes, had too gone looking for the things she had read about in books. She was a florist, enchanted by the supposed magic that certain flowers held, and she had gone searching, seeking to enrich her knowledge.

They found each other somewhere in Greece, each stunned by the other's intelligence and heart. A year later found them back in England, and due to be married; another twelve months, and Anthea was expecting their first child.

They chose to settle in Cokeworth, an old mill town with a history of folklore. There, Petunia Evans was born. Ernest found a job as a history teacher up at the old school; he now dealt in fact, but was never drawn away from mythology and legend. He and his wife were often to be found in the local library, perusing the oldest, dustiest books, while their daughter looked on peacefully.

When Petunia was two years old, her sister was born. From the start, it became clear that Lily and Petunia were as different as it was possible for two sisters to be. While Petunia rather unfortunately resembled her father, Lily was the spitting image of her grandmother, Anthea's mother, from the bright green eyes to the unusually dark red hair. Petunia was interested in fact, and nothing more. She enjoyed subjects like mathematics, which required no imagination. As she grew older, and began to pay attention to the whispers in the playground, whispers about her odd parents and their weird obsessions, she started to look down upon the very idea of mythology, and legend, and folklore. It was a stupid idea, she sniffed, to her parents' dismay. Ridiculous.

Perhaps it didn't help that Lily, already a source of jealousy for Petunia due to her striking good looks, was a decidedly odd child from the very beginning. She had a sort of ethereal quality about her. Eyes, wherever she went, were drawn to her. But she had very few friends, because Lily Evans did strange things. She made objects move. When she was upset, things smashed. When she jumped, she could stay in the air for far too long.

She soon became aware of what she was doing and, encouraged by her parents, who were fascinated by their daughter – who showed evidence of all the things they believed to be true – she began to try to make things happen. She had a particular affinity for flowers, making them dance when she moved her hands.

Anthea, whose flower shop was thriving, was delighted, but she knew that Petunia was disgusted and scared by her sister, that the neighbours were talking, and she forbade Lily from demonstrating her tricks outside of the house. She knew, of course, that they weren't really tricks, but outbursts of magical power. It was far-fetched, and she and Ernest said nothing to Lily, but they knew. Had there not been, many, many years ago, reports of witch-huntings? When women were burned for their magical powers? What were they to do if it all resurfaced, if the narrow-minded came searching for their daughter?

Their fears were relieved one day, when a shell-shocked Lily and a horrified Petunia came hurtling back from the park, out of breath and bursting with news.

"There's a boy – at the park –"

"From _Spinner's End_!"

"And he says – he says –"

"It's rubbish, Lily, don't be an idiot, you're as mad as he is –"

"He says I'm a witch! And he's a wizard! I know it's ridiculous, Mummy, but think of all the things I can _do _–"

Petunia had been outraged when Lily had announced that she was going back to find the boy from the park. It was obvious that Lily was scared – and from Petunia's description, Anthea could see why – but she held her head high and marched off, and came back later that day with her green eyes shining.

"It's real," she said breathlessly. "I believe him. There's a school, he says, a school for witches and wizards, called Hogwarts. They send you a letter when you're eleven. It comes by owl. There's this whole other _world_, Mummy, hidden from everyone else, and I'm part of it!"

"Why are you so _stupid?" _Petunia, who had been listening with an expression of utmost horror, shrieked. "He's _lying_, that's what they do down Spinner's End, he's tricking you, it's not _real! _There's no such thing as – _Hogwarts_, or magic –"

But it was real, and when Lily turned eleven, a smartly dressed, sharp-looking woman turned up on the doorstep to talk about Hogwarts. She had been most taken aback to discover that they already knew.

And so began the Evans's journey into the magical world. Petunia, bitter and surly, had refused to accompany her family to buy Lily's school things – a cauldron! A wand! Spellbooks! – and it was with great reluctance that she had agreed to travel to London to see Lily off to her new school. It looked like the end of the two sisters' already fragile relationship.

Petunia remained at her ordinary school in Cokeworth, resentful towards her parents and sharp whenever Lily was mentioned. Lily grew willowy and ever more beautiful; all reports from Hogwarts said that she was bright, charming, a pleasure to teach. She loved the magical world, and her parents loved hearing about it.

But all was not well in the wizarding world; a war was brewing, people were dying, and the non-magical were being hunted. Lily warned her parents of the war and the danger, but whether they completely took her seriously – unwilling, she supposed, to taint their ideal image of the magical world – she could never quite tell.

The moment Petunia finished school, she left Cokeworth for good, disappearing to London to do a typing course. She wrote brusque letters and asked nothing of her sister.

Lily and Petunia were never seen by anyone else in Cokeworth again, and it wasn't long before their parents left for good, too.

Some might have considered it ironic that what brought Ernest and Anthea together, in the end, tore their daughters, and their family, apart … some might, if anyone but the Evanses had ever known the full story.


	2. One

_31__st__ August 1977_

Seventh year. The final year.

Whilst packing, I drag my winter cloak from first-year – why have I kept it? Sentimental reasons, perhaps – from my wardrobe and fling it around my shoulders. It hovers somewhere around my knees. How I wish I could be that naïve and impressionable eleven-year old again, so delighted with magic, ecstatic to be around others who didn't cry _freak_ whenever I came near …

I swipe my cheeks with my sleeve and stuff the scrap of black material back in the wardrobe. Into my trunk goes the new one, which brushes my ankles and is free of rips and tears. New robes, sharply pressed. New books, new parchment, new quills and ink and potions supplies … and then the old things. My dressing gown, smelling strongly of home after two months on the back of my door. Framed photographs, frozen images of Mum, Dad, Petunia – a very young Petunia, before everything happened – dear Gran, beaming, her arm around a small red-haired girl, matching green eyes alight …

Goodness, what on Earth is wrong with me? Even packing is turning me into a mess. I grab my wand, the familiar willow warm in my hand, and give it a flick. The rest of my things soar into my trunk. Another flick, and the lid closes. Done.

_1__st__ September 1977_

I wash and dress and try not to look around at my temporary bedroom, with its fairy-patterned curtains and wallpaper, bearing more than a few traces of my old life. When I return again, it won't be for long. I've long outgrown this place, this Muggle place. It doesn't fit me any more.

Firmin, perhaps sensing my misery, leaps onto my lap, purring, nudging my hand with his silky black head.

"Lily? Are you ready?"

I swallow, scoop Firmin up, and dump him unceremoniously in his travelling basket. He hisses, scratching at the wicker, irritated at being caged in again. He'll fall asleep soon enough.

"Just one second," I call back to Dad, and reach for the shiny silver badge on the dressing table, its golden letters glinting in the sharp ray of sunshine from the window. _HG. _I pin it carefully on my cardigan, even though I know I'll have to remove it, for it to go on my robes, later on. It makes me feel stronger, powerful, proud. _I _have been chosen to represent the school. I have been selected, over all the other girls in my year, to be the one who looks over the school, who commands the Prefects, who reports to the Headmaster.

Maybe this year, people will see that blood doesn't matter, that a magical family makes no difference to your own achievements …

Maybe not.

Mum and Dad chatter away as we head into London, asking questions about the seventh-year curriculum and my duties as Head Girl. They're very proud, I know, even if they don't quite understand the rest of my education. Prefect and Head Girl they know, they can tell the neighbours, _our Lily's just been made Head Girl. Head Girl! Yes, she's doing very well, fine school … oh, she's taking all the usual subjects, you know, hasn't decided on a career yet _…

You learn to be vague very quickly, living around Muggles.

"Oh," Mum says suddenly, as we near the station. "A letter from Petunia arrived yesterday, I quite forgot to mention. She's doing very well in London, from the sound of it, adores her job, and she says she's met someone, isn't that nice? His name is Vernon and he's –"

I tune out. I don't want to hear about my sister's new life in London, the one she pursued because she was so desperate to get away from me. Well, at least she's happy.

It's almost a relief to part from my parents on Platform 9¾. I'll miss them, and I shall worry for them constantly, but the magical world is where I belong now. I'm desperate to get back.

"I'll see you at Christmas," I say, hugging them both, and then the train door is slammed shut and I turn from the window, as the platform slips away.

I linger in the corridor for a minute, before remembering my new status. Unlike the last two years, I won't be waiting for the Head Boy and Girl to give out orders – I'm the one giving them. The prefects are waiting for _me_.

"Lily!"

Mary Macdonald, my closest friend as of last year, hurries towards me.

"I've got a compartment for when you come back," she says, nodding at my badge. "Good luck! I hope the Head Boy is someone good …"

I hope so too.

The prefect carriage is almost full, with eight newcomers, fifth-years from each house, some looking haughty, some nervous, some indifferent. I run my eyes over my fellow seventh-years – all of them are there, except Remus Lupin, the Gryffindor prefect. He must be Head Boy, then. I feel a swoop of relief. He might not assert his authority as he should, but he's nice. I'd much rather have him as my partner than a Slytherin. I know what they think of me.

"Hi," I say, feeling everyone's eyes on me. Not all are friendly. "For those of you who don't know, I'm Lily Evans, and I'm Head Girl this ye –"

"Sorry we're late," pants a voice as the door slides open. Remus Lupin and James Potter stumble inside, both red in the face. "Got caught up –"

My gaze flies straight to the silver badge on James's chest. _HB. _Head Boy.

"It's not unheard of, for someone to become Head Boy without being a prefect first," says James, as the last of the prefects scatter out of the compartment. "It's just not … very common."

After the initial shock, it's not hard to work out why James Potter was made Head Boy, over all the other prefects. Two years ago, there wouldn't have been a chance in hell, but last year he put his nose to the grindstone, started working really hard and getting amazing grades (instead of just really good ones) and stopped hexing people in the corridors. When you take away that big-headed air, he's actually really funny.

"Well, you deserve it," I say honestly. He looks surprised, but pleased, fiddling with his glasses.

"Knew you'd get it," he says, nodding at my badge. "So – what are we supposed to do, exactly …?"

We take turns patrolling the corridors; after an hour, in which I've broken up two amateur duels, I join Mary for lunch and fill her in on the happenings in the prefect compartment.

"James Potter's Head Boy?" she repeats, startled. "Good for him, I suppose. At least you'll have a laugh."

"I don't think we'll be spending that much time together," I say, pulling the wrappings off a Chocolate Frog. "It's just like being a prefect, really, with more authority for punishments. And we'll collect reports from the prefects and take them to Professor Dumbledore every so often."

"Doesn't sound like much fun," says Mary, pulling a face. "And I doubt the Slytherins will like taking orders from a Muggleborn."  
Mary's Muggleborn, too. We were always _friendly_, but never _friends_, until last year, when parents started getting scared and pulling their children out of Hogwarts. In our dormitory, it was the half-bloods who disappeared: Sally, Isobel and Eudora, all with a Muggle or Muggle-born parent. Sally, who was the first to go, keeps in touch. We were close once, but I know her mother, a witch, advised her to say away from me. I'm risky company.

Of course, that doesn't bother Mary, as she's in quite as much danger as me, and Griselda Fawley, the only other remaining member of our dormitory, comes from one of the oldest pureblood families there is. She doesn't think she has much to worry about, even if she's friends with two Muggleborns. I hope she's right.

_1st September 1977 - later  
_  
Hogwarts used to be like a separate world, completely distanced from everything in the outside world, but it's all creeping in now. The Sorting Hat warns us of dangers beyond the castle walls, and when I catch sight of Dumbledore during the feast, talking to Professor McGonagall, he looks grim. There are more and more empty places at the house tables.

I don't know if I'm glad to be back.


	3. Two

_2__nd__ September 1977_

Only one day of lessons before the weekend; in almost all of them, the teachers stress that there are only nine months until the N.E. . Exams seem almost trivial, with everything that's going on now, but I don't say anything. Sirius Black rolls his eyes whenever anyone mentions how important qualifications are. A few years ago I'd have said he just didn't care for the sake of not caring; now, I think differently. I've seen him and his friends whispering in corners of the common room, noticed them listening intently to the Sorting Hat's song and Dumbledore's speech last night. They're troublemakers – or they were – but I think they're good people. I think they want to _do _something in this war.  
I think I want to, too.

_3__rd__-4__th__ September 1977_

How did I get so much homework from just four lessons?

_5__th__ September 1977_

The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this year – my seventh – is a tall, skinny man, probably in his forties, called Erasmus Parkin. He bounds into the classroom on legs like stilts, swinging his arms energetically.  
"Well! Seventh year! _Wonderful _year! Now –" he claps his hands – "down to business. Deflecting curses. How _does _one do it?"

The general consensus, as gathered once we leave the classroom after a gruelling but interesting hour of learning about Shield Charms, is that Parkin is slightly barking and a little too energetic, but overall good, which makes a change from some who came before him.  
"As long as he's teaching us how to protect ourselves, he can't be bad," Remus Lupin says.

_6__th__ September_ _1977_

Castle patrol, 7-8pm. Not entirely sure why, but James is on top form, telling me about an unprecedented incident in Arithmancy earlier, when Professor Vector, for no apparent reason, attempted a joke (for the first time ever, James insists) about a numerologist, an astronomer and a Seer and forgot the punch line.

At half past seven, we finish our search of the ground floor classrooms (popular destinations for a romantic rendezvous, given their lack of usage) and are heading back up the marble staircase when James spots two fourth-years heading through a door off the Entrance Hall.  
"Hang on a sec," he says, and dashes after them. Intrigued, I follow, hurrying across the Hall and down a set of stone steps, into a well-lit corridor lined with paintings. James has the two students cornered beside a painting of a bowl of fruit.  
"It's not like you don't get fed enough at mealtimes!" he's saying sternly. "Consider this a warning, I'll have the elves come straight to me if you're even in there again, and you had better hope _I _don't catch you! Now go on – scram!"  
"What …?" I ask intelligently, as the kids are scramming.

"Trying to get into the kitchens," says James, gesturing to the painting of fruit.  
"But the Hufflepuff common room is just down here, how did you know they weren't Hufflepuffs? And," I add, realising, "how do _you _know how to get into the kitchens?"  
"One," says James – he looks amused – "they're on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. And two – Lily, you're very clever, you didn't really think that I _wouldn't _know how to get into the kitchens, did you?"  
The answer to that is that I had never really thought about it. Is it odd that I have spent six years in this place, and yet must have half the knowledge that James and his friends have of it?  
I repeat this thought aloud.  
"Someday," James promises, "I'll give you a tour."

_8__th__ September 1977_

Barnabas Crewe, sixth year, receives a letter from his parents instructing him to keep his head down and not do or say anything that could be classed as controversial. Funny incidents are happening, the Crewes write, deaths and injuries, and they're happening to people who are proudly pro-Muggle or Muggleborn. There's nothing to be gained, the letter finishes by saying, from defending people who haven't got a clue that you're defending them.

Barnabas makes the mistake of reading this letter aloud in the common room during a free period which he happens to share with most of the Gryffindor seventh years.

"Well, they've got a point!" he shouts over the melee of angry voices. "I mean, people are getting themselves killed for nothing, obviously I'd protect someone who was being attacked right in front of me but the Muggles don't care if you're killed defending them, it's like the people who defend werewolves, they don't give a damn –"  
There's a sudden and violent surge of movement as James and Sirius launch themselves forwards; Crewe dives out of the way, just in time.  
_"Don't_," says Remus sharply.  
James, mutinous, glares at Crewe and spits, "there's a fine line between letting the Death Eaters get on with it and joining them yourself, you piece of scum, I hope you know that."  
"I'm no Death Eater, I just –"  
"How many of your friends are Muggleborn?" I snap. "What are you planning on doing, pretending you don't know them any more? Looking the other way if they get killed right in front of you?"  
"No, but –"  
_"My parents_," says Griselda in a loud, carrying voice, "are doing everything they can to proclaim their pro-Muggle stance! Just yesterday my mother had an article in the _Daily Prophet_, in which she said _quite rightly _that we are all human, and that Muggles and Muggleborns have exactly the same rights as anyone else!"  
"Hear hear," says Remus, at the same time as James adds, "and mixed-species, too."

Crewe slumps in his chair, looking torn. Somewhere, the bell rings, signalling the start of lunch, but nobody moves.  
"So you'd all risk your lives to defend the Muggles?" he asks weakly, looking round at all of us.  
"Brains of Merlin, this one," snarls Sirius.  
"My _parents _are Muggles, idiot," I tell him coldly.  
"This is Gryffindor," says James, as the portrait hole opens and Peter troops in. _"Where dwell the brave at heart_. Times like these, mate – you can't be in it to save your own neck. There are lives at stake. You just have to decide whether or not you think it's worth it. Whether you're _brave _enough. This isn't about you, it's not personal for you, but it is to the Muggleborns here who are terrified for their parents, it is for the Muggles who might not make it home one day – this is bigger than you, and your parents. And we have to resist, we have to fight back."

_9__th__-11__th__ September 1977_

Word quickly spreads about the … discussion in the Gryffindor common room. Barnabas Crewe looks constantly subdued; rumour has it that he's written to his parents, telling them that he's not going to save his own neck so others can die. Gryffindors clap him on the back, tell him it's worth it. I see a small group of Slytherins corner him in the Entrance Hall, telling him that it's not.

James invades my thoughts all weekend.

_12__th__ September 1977_

_Come on, it's nearly the end of the lesson. Say something.  
_  
"I liked what you said to Crewe."  
James looks up, startled; his knife slips dangerously close to his thumb. "What?"  
"You know," I push on, "everything you said to him, it was great." I sprinkle lacewing flies into my cauldron and give the potion a stir. "I mean, there's being on the right side, and then there's actually … standing up and doing something about it."  
"Yeah, well, that's the plan." He flashes me a grin. My heart races. "I suppose you've got similar ideas - right?"  
"Right."  
He turns back to his potion, and I find myself admiring his profile.  
"Between you and me – well, and Sirius and Remus and Peter," he says suddenly, quietly, not looking away from his potion; I strain to hear him, "I'm planning on going to Du-"  
"Oho!"

Damn it.

"This looks brilliant, as always," says Slughorn warmly, peering into my cauldron. "Lily, my dear girl, I've been meaning to ask you – a little supper on Friday night, the usual crowd and a few special guests – you can bring one yourself if you like! Can I count on you to be there?"  
"Of course," I say automatically. "I'll be there."  
"Excellent, excellent," Slughorn wheezes, and bustles off to the next table.  
James turns to me again as we pack up, but to my disappointment, doesn't carry on where he left off.  
"Aren't those things dead boring?" he asks instead. (I happen to know that he and Sirius used to get invitations too, but never attended, deeming it far too dull and pretentious.)  
"Well – yes," I say, and then, "d'you fancy coming with me?"  
His face, turning red, registers surprise, joy, and finally nonchalance. It's flattering.  
"Yeah – why not?"

So that's that.


	4. Three

_16th September 1977_

The 'little supper' is as utterly Slughornish as always; a clutch of well-connected and (a few) talented students, mingling self-consciously with the Hogwarts alumni from high places. It's different from all the previous ones, though, because this time I'm not bored. James keeps up a highly amusing running commentary in my ear, on everyone from a Beater for the Tutshill Tornados ("do you think he carries that bat everywhere?") to Rodney Fitchett, the Junior Assistant to the Assistant to the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation ("Did he grow that moustache _on purpose?")_.

Towards the end of the evening, Slughorn appears in our corner with a burly, dark-haired man, whom he introduces as Elston Runcorn.  
"Elston, this is James Potter –" James frowns as he shakes Runcorn's hand – "and Lily Evans, my best student! Elston, well, I'm sure you're heard of him, _rather _high up in Magical Law Enforcement, I was able to get him off to a flying start – but I daresay the rest is all him! Oh, there's Antiochus – must go and say hello –"  
Runcorn smiles rigidly as Slughorn hurries away.  
"Potter – Aegeus's son? You look very like him," he says. There's something about his eyes, a coldness, that I don't like. "Fine wizard, of course, and a brilliant Auror … his retirement was a great loss to the Ministry."  
"Yeah, he was sad to go," says James, his face impassive, "but he thought it was for the best. He was worried, you see, about the direction the Auror department was heading in."  
"Really," says Runcorn expressionlessly. "Well … he's getting on, isn't he? Yes … and Miss – Evans, was it? Horace has spoken highly of you, but I must say, I don't recognise the name …"  
_Oh_. "No, you wouldn't," I say as lightly as I can. "I'm Muggleborn."  
The subtle change in his expression says as much as if he were to physically recoil; I feel slightly sick, and realise that my hands are shaking. James takes one in his own, as casually as if he'd done it a hundred times before.  
"Muggleborn?" Runcorn repeats. He looks at me with those cold, calculating eyes, then at James, and then – ever so briefly – at our entwined hands, before moving his gaze swiftly back to James.  
"You seem to know that times are changing," he says, and he's speaking entirely to James now. "As I say, your father was – _is _– a fine wizard. The name of Potter has always been respected. I would hate to think of it losing that respect because you are too – lost in the ways of youth to act prudently. I would advise you to think carefully about your decisions and how they may affect you in the future. Rebellion and rashness will not do you well."  
"There's a difference between rebellion and doing the right thing," says James coolly. "But thanks for the _advice_ … I'll bear it in mind."

"Bastard," he growls, as soon as we're out of the overheated confines of Slughorn's office. "Was that supposed to be a _threat? _Who does he think he is!"  
"I hate this," I say, thinking of Runcorn's disgust as he looked at me. "And it's going to get even worse out of school, isn't it? Even the people who aren't outright trying to kill me, they'll be looking down their noses at me, thinking I'm scum, thinking I'm worthless – _ugh!"  
_Kicking the wall does nothing but scuff my shoe, but I feel the slightest bit better for it.  
"They're the scum," says James fiercely, and I appreciate the feeling, but it doesn't change anything, does it? Words won't change anything, can't change anything – someone actually has to _stop _these people.

James holds my hand all the way back to Gryffindor Tower; it's large and warm and feels … like a man's. Much later, curled up in bed with Firmin, I realise that's what he is now, a man. He's not the immature boy who hexed people for laughs and didn't see the point of putting his brains to good use. He's changed. I never _dis_liked him – but now? Now, I like him. I really like him.

_18th September 1977_

He likes me too, I know that. I think he used to like me for superficial reasons, but I think it's something more now. I _feel _something around him.

_21st September 1977_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

Everything is fine here. There is a lot of work to be done, and it's harder than ever, but I like the challenge! The weather's been awful, of course, so with that and all my work, I haven't got outside much lately. There'll be a visit to the village soon, so hopefully things will clear up a bit for then, I could do with some fresh air.  
I hope all's well with you, and Petunia if you've heard from her. We're being told to look into post-school options again at the moment – who knows, I could end up in London too next year!

Take care, and write soon  
All my love,  
Lily

28th September 1977 – early  
  
I can't sleep, and I have a long Potions essay due. So I get up.

It's nearly six when the portrait hole opens and James, Sirius and Peter climb through. They're dishevelled and weary-looking. No Remus – he wasn't at dinner last night either. I glance out of the window and see the moon over the Forest, completely round. My mind shoots into overdrive, thinking, working it out …  
"Lily?"  
The trio exchanges uneasy looks.  
"I won't snitch," I say quickly.  
James, to my surprise, says, "don't you want to know where we were?"  
Do I?  
I glance at the others. Peter looks uncertain, Sirius bored. He catches my eye, shrugs, yawns, and slopes off towards the boys' dormitories without a backwards glance.  
Peter hesitates, then scuttles off after him.  
James takes a seat, long legs stretched out in front of him.  
"Does this have something to do with Remus being a werewolf?" I ask him, keeping my voice low.  
He laughs. "I thought you'd probably have worked it out by now. Unless," he adds, suddenly sharp, "unless – Snape told you?"  
"Well – I think he suspected for a while – and then –" my brain's turning as I speak, making connections – "and then – the Shrieking Shack! He went down there – he went to try and _see? _And you saved him! But how did you know …"  
"Snape was interfering, he was trying to find out," says James flatly. "So Sirius thought it'd be hilarious to tell him how to get into the Shack on full moon – give him a bit of a fright. He didn't think about what could happen to Remus if he bit Snape."  
"Oh."  
"And we were out tonight," he continues, "because that's how we help Remus with all this. We stay with him all night. As Animagi."  
"Oh! Oh – _what? Animagi? _Are you serious? How on Earth did you manage that?"  
"Well, it wasn't easy," says James, with a hint of pride – and a little smugness – in his smile. "But it was worth it. It makes it easier for him."  
My mind's racing. "What are you? What do you turn into?"  
"A stag," he says. He glances at his watch. "It's nearly half past. I think I'm going to bed, if you don't mind."  
"No – no, of course not …"  
He gets to his feet, yawning.  
"Just one thing," I say, feeling slightly dizzy from all the information I'm still trying to process – and it_is _half six in the morning – "why did you tell me all of this?"  
"Well, I trust you," says James, scratching his chin idly. "I don't mind you knowing our secrets." He pauses. "My secrets."

_28th September 1977 – later, but still early_

Well.

_29th September 1977_

James suggests a walk in the grounds after dinner.  
I accept.

_30th September 1977_

Dear Mum,

Well – I suppose you can tell Dad this if you want! But I thought I'd write to you especially. I'm going out with someone, his name's James, he's in my year and my house. He plays Quidditch for the house team and he's very clever – he's won all sorts of prizes for Transfiguration. And – most importantly! – he's very nice. Not as nice as Petunia's new boyfriend, I'm sure, who sounded utterly delightful from your description, but nice enough for me.  
In any case, it's a lovely distraction from all the schoolwork.

Take care,  
All my love,  
Lily

_5th October 1977_

Why is there so much schoolwork? I have better things to be doing.

_9th October 1977_

"So you really are going out with James, then?" Mary asks, when I return to the dormitory shortly (… a while) after curfew one night.

I nudge Firmin off my pillow and climb into bed, trying not to smile too much. "Yes."  
"He seems much nicer these days," says Griselda appreciatively. "He's not that good-looking, though, I much prefer Sirius."  
"I don't think Sirius is interested in dating," Mary tells her regretfully. "And he's a bit scary, don't you think?"  
I know what she means – it's that brooding look in his eyes, that he gets quite often these days. The Marauders, as they call themselves, seem to have left their days of mischief behind – they're now using their talent for scheming and strategy for good. They spend hours holed up with old newspapers, making lists of Death Eaters, known and suspected, with their strengths and weaknesses. When they're not doing that, they're in library, researching useful spells, and in empty classrooms, practising them.

But I don't say any of this. I say, "he's all right."  
Then,  
"And _I _think James is good-looking."  
Firmin licks my hand in agreement.

_15th October 1977_

Hogsmeade visit. Griselda and Mary both have dates, Griselda with a Muggleborn Ravenclaw called Morris, Mary with Edwin Abbott, from Hufflepuff. I wonder if Griselda has chosen Morris simply to make a point – a pureblood dating a Muggleborn – but then James and I see them huddled up in a café on the High Street at lunchtime, looking completely unaware of their surroundings. I shouldn't be so judgemental, really.

We also see a group of Slytherins, including Severus, edging furtively down an alleyway at the bottom of the village. "Apparition point," James tells me.  
I know I won't tell on him, but I wish I could.


	5. Four

_20th October 1977_

At breakfast, James receives a letter, reads it, says a few short words to Sirius and storms off.  
"From his parents," Sirius says, when I badger him at the end of Ancient Runes. "They're not very happy with him."  
"Why?" From what I know, James has a great relationship with his parents. They're always at King's Cross to pick him up, both of them, and he's received lavish gifts from them every year on his birthday.  
Sirius looks slightly apologetic, not an expression I've come to associate with him. "Well … because of you, actually."  
I drop my ink bottle. It explodes over my notes.  
_"Tergeo," _says Sirius quickly, draining ink from parchment with his wand. "Sorry, but you asked!"  
"Because I'm Muggleborn." It's not a question. "But I didn't think – I thought the Potters weren't into all the pureblood mania?"  
Sirius shakes his head. "They're not – and they're great people, they really are, took me in two years ago when I ran away … well, anyway, they're definitely not anti-Muggle, I can tell you that. But they know that a lot of people are, these days, the people in power. James is their only child, they know he's – we're – planning on joining the fight when we leave, and they're worried that he's making himself a target. I mean, he's already best mates with me, and I'm probably pretty high up on the Death Eaters' hit list, if my cousins have anything to do with it …"  
"Your cousins?"  
"Bellatrix Lestrange," says Sirius, looking darkly amused as I give a yelp of shock. Bellatrix Lestrange is one of the most brutal Death Eaters. "And – well, I don't know if Narcissa is a Death Eater, but her husband, Lucius Malfoy, definitely is."  
"Oh, he was _awful!" _I recall, remembering the tall, blond prefect who docked points from every Muggleborn who crossed his path. "Sirius, I'm sorry –"  
"Don't be, it's not your fault," he says quickly. "Why do you think I ran away? I've hated the lot of them for years, and they hate me. My brother, he's a budding Death Eater too, and my parents adore him … family, eh?"  
"My sister hates me because I'm a witch," I tell him. "She's barely said a word to me in years."  
"Sorry. That's rubbish."  
"Mmm."

Bonding over family problems … well, I can think of worse ways.

_20th October 1977 – later_

James tells me pretty much what Sirius did: his parents are overprotective and they're worried that, by dating a Muggleborn, he'll make himself a target for the Death Eaters.  
"I'm going to be a target anyway," he says crossly, making room for me on his bed. "Anyway, I told them that if _I _don't care, and _you _don't care, then nothing they say will change anything – you don't care, do you?"  
I show, rather than tell, him that I don't.  
"Good," he says breathlessly a few minutes later. "They want to meet you, though. Over Christmas, if that's all right."  
"I suppose so." I lean back against the pillows, thinking. "They won't see me as some … some harlot who's dragging their precious son into danger, will they?"  
"Most likely, but that's nothing really new for you, is it?"  
"Maybe," I say loudly, ignoring him, "maybe, if I'm meeting your parents over Christmas … you could meet mine?"  
"Does your father have a – what's it called –"  
"A toupee?"  
"The metal weapon –"  
"A sword?"  
"With the little pellet thingies –"  
"A gun?"  
"Yeah!"  
"No."  
"… All right, then."

_31st October 1977_

_Dear Tiger Lily,_

We would be absolutely thrilled to meet your current paramour, especially if he has good table manners.   
_We recently met Petunia's new chap, which was an enlightening experience. To each his – or her – own, your mother says, and they do seem happy, so I have been the epitome of politeness, as I expect you will be when you have the pleasure of meeting him.  
Glad to hear that school is going well for you, and that the object of your affections is not distracting you too much. Your description of his Quidditch practices was so thrilling that we are at an utter loss as to why you haven't taken up the sport yourself. Perhaps your fear of heights, as your mother suggests.  
Do keep up the good work – we're frightfully proud of our little sorceress – and make sure you give your fellow a good education in how appliances work. We've recently purchased a new refrigerator and it would be a shame if it were to blow up.  
Much love,  
Mum and Dad_

"My dad's a bit weird," I explain to a bemused James.  
"What's a refrigerator?" he asks.

_2nd November 1977_

"I am in love!" Griselda shouts at the top of her voice, spinning wildly around the dormitory. Mary's hairbrush clatters to the ground and Firmin streaks for cover. "I am _IN LOVE!"  
_"Can't you be in love – silently?" I ask, only half-joking. Griselda doesn't seem to hear me.  
"Mrs Griselda Murray," she says dreamily, flopping down onto her bed. "Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?"  
Mary glances up from her own bed, where she's scribbling away on a piece of parchment – probably an ode to Edwin. Much to my (cynical) surprise, both Mary and Griselda's dates to Hogsmeade ended well – very well. They both appear to be planning weddings.  
"All pureblood-Muggleborn relationships," Mary comments. "Me and Edwin, you and Morris and Lily and James."  
Hmm. There's probably some kind of statistic to suggest that this won't end well for some of us. _(One in three Muggleborn-pureblood relationships end in Death Eater attacks …)  
_I am being cynical again.

_5th November 1977_

Bonfire Night. It isn't celebrated in the wizarding world, but I spend the evening lying on my bed with my eyes closed, picturing the bundled-up masses freezing under a pitch black sky in the fields behind the primary school, waiting for that first _boom_, the explosion of colour … the delighted shrieks from children, the fizz of sparklers …

Happy memories.

_8th November 1977_

It's Petunia's birthday. I send a card and a present – a pretty bracelet from a little shop in Hogsmeade – but only realise that she will hate having an owl turn up in London when I'm halfway down from the Owlery.

_12th November 1977_

Mum writes. Petunia has asked her to request that I don't send her any more owls. I take this to mean that she loved the present.

_16th November 1977_

I catch a fifth-year Slytherin out after curfew, and order him back to his common room. He spits at my feet and says he won't take orders from a Mudblood.

I'd tell Slughorn, or even Dumbledore, but it won't make any difference.

_17th November 1977_

Quidditch, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. Sirius is particularly enthusiastic in his cheering for Arnan Pellett, the Gryffindor Seeker, probably because the Slytherin Seeker is his brother Regulus.  
Gryffindor win, anyway.

_22nd November 1977_

Slughorn sets one of his little competitions, to produce the best Ageing Potion in the two hours provided. He dithers between mine and Severus's for a few minutes before pronouncing me the winner.  
_Not just a Muggleborn now, am I? _I feel like saying, but that would be childish.

_27th November 1977_

The _Daily Prophet _reports that a Muggle family in Devon have been killed. The horrible thing is that it's not really anything unusual, these days.


	6. Five

_1__st__-2__nd__ December 1977_

Griselda's birthday. Morris proposes. Griselda initiates a party in the common room that goes on until two in the morning (mock exams have just finished, and most people were needing to let off a bit of steam). McGonagall appears in a dressing gown and hairnet and furious mood, until Griselda apologises profoundly and says "sorry Professor – but I've just got engaged!", to which McGonagall offers sincere-sounding congratulations and wishes her and Morris all the best, before telling us to keep it down and returning to bed.

It's an odd night.

_3__rd__ December 1977_

"I can't believe you're engaged," Mary says, staring at the ring. "When will you get married?"  
"Don't know," says Griselda, gently prising her hand from Mary's. "Maybe in the summer."  
"Aren't your parents furious?"  
Griselda laughs. "Hardly! They're delighted. Well, perhaps they wouldn't have minded me waiting a bit – but you know how they are, they're not going to complain about me marrying a Muggleborn, are they?"  
"Edwin's parents don't mind either – him dating me, that is," says Mary. She glances at me. "I heard James's parents weren't too pleased about you and him …"  
Oh, I love being reminded of this … "No. They think it'll mean trouble for him. But I'm meeting them over Christmas, so hopefully I'll win them over with my rapier wit and dazzling charm."  
Is it bad that I'm not really joking?  
"So are you going to marry him?" Griselda asks interestedly.

_3__rd__ December 1977 – later _

_"Are _you?" James asks, when I repeat the conversation to him. I smile and lean back against his chest.  
"I don't know. Is he going to ask me?"  
My tone is casual, but my heart's thudding.  
"He might," says James, fiddling with a strand of my hair.  
"Well, then. I _might_ marry him."

_10__th__ December 1977_

End of term grades are given out. I'm still doing well, to my relief. My heart hasn't really been in it this year.

_15__th__ December 1977_

Griselda's father publishes a lengthy letter in the _Daily Prophet _renouncing his pureblood status. Griselda reads it aloud at the breakfast table, beaming with pride.

_19__th__ December 1977_

Home for the holidays.  
Mum and Dad greet me at the station with huge hugs. I'm keen to get them out of there, so they don't meet James and I don't meet his parents just yet. Soon.

Cokeworth has barely changed at all, bleak and grey in the evening winter light. Compared to Hogsmeade, idyllic under a blanket of pure snow, it's positively grim.

Over tea, Mum and Dad fill me in on the latest goings on in their jobs. Dad's been reprimanded yet again for failing to stick to fact in his lessons, but reverting instead to myth and legend, his obsession. He maintains that a History teacher shouldn't _have _to stick to factual history.  
Mum's flower shop is steady; she's expecting a boom around Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, she says. My mind drifts to afternoons spent in there, with Petunia …

I ask after her.  
"Oh, she's fine," says Mum cheerfully, stacking the plates together. "She'll be home tomorrow, I expect she'll be glad to see you."  
Mum and Dad have been brilliant about so many things – my disappearing into a strange world for most of each year, for a start – but for some reason, they've never really accepted the rift between Petunia and I. Perhaps they just don't want to; maybe they feel like they'd have to take sides … or perhaps they're hoping that it could still all blow over.

I hope so. But I'm not optimistic.

_20__th__ December 1977_

Petunia breezes in in a flurry of high heels, sharp suit and expensive-smelling perfume. She's full of London, her job and her boyfriend, all the _normal _people she works with and the _normal _activities she enjoys her in spare time.

I wonder, but don't ask, if spying on the neighbours is a _normal _activity.  
Instead, I tell her that it's good to see her.  
She sniffs and disappears upstairs.

Right.

_23__rd__ December 1977_

Although I tell myself that I'm not ashamed of my grubby hometown, I can't help but feel glad that James is coming at Christmas, when the lights in the streets somewhat disguise the whole rundown air of it. Our house looks spectacular (although nothing like Hogwarts), fairy lights in the trees and around the front door, lining the living room walls and wrapped around the tree. I don't dare to think of the electricity bill, but Dad simply laughs and says that 'my chap' ought to see us at our best.

My chap arrives at five on the dot, hair damp with sleet and nose pink with cold. At the sound of the door, Petunia returns to her room, slamming the door.  
"That means 'lovely to meet you'," I translate, as James, stepping over the threshold, starts at the sound. "She's a bit anti-social."  
"Fair enough." He kisses me quickly, as if my father might suddenly leap out and beat him with a cricket bat for such an act. "I like your lights."  
"I expect you've got real fairies at your house," I say, rolling my eyes when he grins apologetically. "Shove your shoes and stuff in that cupboard there – Mum and Dad are in the living room, they didn't want to scare you by ambushing you straight from the door."  
"So they sent you instead? And that's _not _supposed to be scary? Those Muggle clothes …"  
I ignore him and pull him into the living room.  
"Mum, Dad – James. James, my parents."  
Mum and Dad look like children in a sweetshop as they rush forwards, hands outstretched. James has on his most charming smile as he greets them.  
"Mr and Mrs Evans – a pleasure, I can't tell you," he says. "Lily's told me so much about you … Mrs Evans, I'd love to see your shop one day. My mother adores gardening, but I expect she's nowhere near as talented as you."  
My mother, strong, intelligent woman, turns scarlet and giggles. "Oh, please," she says, batting a hand. "And do call me Anthea."  
"Do you like jokes, James?" Dad asks suddenly.  
"Love them," James replies promptly. Dad beams. "I don't know any Muggle jokes, though. Perhaps you could tell me a few …?"

Look at that. What a natural.

_23__rd__ December 1977 - later_

I think I've been forgotten.

_24__th__ December 1977_

Mum and Dad spend the whole of Christmas Eve talking about James; their interest in Vernon, Petunia's boyfriend, fades into the background. I can't help feeling more than a bit sorry for her.

_26__th__ December 1977_

I spend most of Boxing Day in bed with Firmin, just because I can. A letter arrives from James (with a scribbled post script from Sirius, wishing me a merry Christmas), asking me if the 29th would be all right for dinner with his parents.  
Lovely.

_28__th__ December 1977_

I write to Griselda, who met Morris's parents at the beginning of the holidays, asking for advice. She sends back a lengthy letter filled with titbits such as 'just be yourself! But don't be sarcastic at all, parents don't tend to like that', and 'it's probably better if you don't mention the war, unless they do'.

She then talks about her meeting with the Murrays, who apparently were 'absolutely delightful'. Wedding plans are already starting to take shape, she says, and she is over the moon. Would I consider, she asks, being a bridesmaid?  
I write back with a _'yes!' _that punctures the parchment.

It's strange … we were never _that _close, but now I suppose I consider her one of my best friends. Funny how that can happen.

_29__th__ December 1977_

Well, I am alive, and was not served with dinner, which can only be a good thing.

James's parents, Aegeus and Lavinia, are terrifying but really quite lovely. There was no mention of the whole _our only child could be murdered because of you_ thing – I wonder if James might have spoken to them beforehand, but it doesn't really matter, because they didn't seem _un_happy about the relationship. They were perfectly pleasant to me - and I to them, of course. My biggest achievement by far was not making any jokes about how I was only with James for his money.  
Not making any to his parents, that is. Obviously I said them to him. But he laughed.

So. The parents are met, and without catastrophe. Hurrah.

_31st December 1977 – 1__st__ January 1978_

We have a quiet New Year's Eve celebration, just us. Petunia deigns to join us downstairs, and Dad brings out the photo albums. It's bittersweet, flipping through the dusty old pages, seeing photos of me and Petunia together, grinning at the camera, or at each other. One such photo, dated 1968, is right next to one of me aged eleven, in my Hogwarts robes and hat. Petunia flips that page over without a second glance.

I enter 1978 feeling confused, miserable and irritated, which is just lovely. The champagne, cheap as it is, numbs the pain a little.

_2__nd__ January 1978_

The tense atmosphere isn't helped by Dad producing a camera over breakfast and announcing that he wants a picture of 'his grown-up girls'. Petunia and I line up in front of the fireplace and smile stiffly. There could be years of these photos, I think, years of awkward Christmases, faked cheeriness …

Petunia catches the next train back to London.


	7. Six

_4__th__ January 1978_

Back on Platform 9¾. Mum and Dad give me the biggest hugs and tell me to be good, then Mum produces a small package wrapped in silver paper.

"Since you'll be at school on your birthday," she says, smiling at me fondly. "We wanted to give you this in person."  
_Don't cry_. I fumble with the wrapping paper and produce a fine burnished gold locket, dulled with age, but still lovely.  
"It was your grandmother's," says Mum. "She left it to you – with a substantial sum of money, of course, and we'll sort that out when you are actually eighteen. But – we thought you'd like this now."  
_Don't cry_. "I love it." I clasp it round my neck and hug both parents again. "Thank you …"  
Doors start to close along the train. "You'd better get on," says Dad, kissing me on the cheek. "Good luck with your exams, darling. We have every faith in you."  
"Make magic happen," Mum adds, laughing.

Safely ensconced in a compartment, I cry for five minutes. Mary passes me tissues and pats me sympathetically on the arm.  
I cried like this on my first journey to Hogwarts. Because of Petunia … but she was there to see me off, then. _Don't cry more, for God's sake.  
_"Sorry," I say thickly, Vanishing the pile of crumpled tissues. "Don't know what's got into me."  
"Oh, I cried for at least an hour when it hit me that I probably wouldn't be _really_ living at home ever again," says Mary cheerfully. "I mean, we'll most likely stay for Easter, won't we, with the exams? There's nothing wrong with a good cry. Lets it all out."  
"I suppose." I smile weakly at her. "Where's Griselda – with Morris?"  
"Yes, she said she would be, in her last letter," says Mary. "She said she hadn't revised much, too. I've done loads, but you know what Mum's like, she's a teacher, even if _she_ doesn't understand the work she'll make sure I do! Except Memory Charms, I still don't really _get _the theory – can you help?"

We spend an hour going over Memory Charms, until James appears at the door to collect me for our round of the train. He brings Edwin with him, who happily takes my place in the compartment.  
"Hello," James says, once we're in the corridor, and he gives me a thoroughly non-verbal greeting. "I missed you … Sirius's hugs just aren't the same."  
"I should hope not," I say, and kiss him again. "I missed you too, though."

It's true, I realise as we patrol the corridors. I did really miss him … not just because of how I feel about him, but because he feels like … like a link to the wizarding world. I feel out of place in the Muggle world and I used to feel a little out of place in the wizarding world, but now I feel like I'm finding my place. If I marry James, I'll be part of a wizarding family.  
But will I still be part of _my _family?  
I don't know.

_4__th__ January 1978 – later_

I've barely had time to notice that Griselda isn't at dinner when Dumbledore gets to his feet and clears his throat.  
"It is with the greatest sadness that I must tell you of the horror – the horror which has taken a student from us," he says, his voice slightly unsteady, and my brain goes numb. His voice is the only sound in the world.  
"Griselda Fawley and her family were murdered two days ago, by the followers of Lord Voldemort. They were murdered because they dared to stand up to him, to say that blood status does not matter, that they would not conform. Their unwavering courage and purity of heart should not be pitied, or disparaged, but celebrated. Your pity should go to those who have lost a friend, a partner, and who will suffer greatly in the loss of such brave and wonderful people."

_5__th__ January 1978 – early_

I was going to be her bridesmaid, is all I can think.

_5__th__ January 1978 – still early  
_  
But she was so happy! With Morris – oh God! Poor Morris!

_5__th__ January 1978 – slightly later_

It doesn't feel real.  
But the empty bed is real enough.

_5__th__ January 1978 – around 8?_

I haven't slept, and Mary's puffy, red eyes are enough to tell me that she hasn't, either.

McGonagall comes into the dormitory, face pale, to tell us that we're excused from lessons today, and that food will be sent up to us.  
Just that small gesture of kindness makes me want to sob. So does McGonagall's shaking hand as she conjures a handkerchief and passes it to me.

Being awake means thinking. So I sleep.

_6__th__ January 1978 – very, very early_

I'm woken by an owl landing on my covers. James's owl. Hercules. He has a note in his beak, which he drops in my lap, before swooping out of the window, much to Firmin's dismay.  
I grab my wand and light it silently. The dormitory feels stuffy and crowded, even though there are only two people –

No. Read the note.

_If you're awake, and you want to talk – or not – meet me in the common room._

I want to get out of here, and more than anything, I want to get out of my own head, so I dress quickly and hurry out of the dorm. My legs feel shaky and unused; I feel like I'm in a different world.

James waits by the portrait hole. It seems like months since I last saw him. He's tall and serious, and looks like a pillar of strength – everything I need right now.

"Come on," he says, and takes my hand. In his other, he holds a map, his lit wand sticking out of the end of his sleeve. I don't ask.  
We walk quickly through the castle, James steering, down staircases and through tapestries and passageways that I've never seen before. And then we're somehow outside, although we haven't gone through the Entrance Hall.  
I still don't ask.  
There's still snow on the ground, but my feet are numb enough that I don't feel the damp. James tows me across the grass and down to the lakeside, where he says _"impervious," _and pulls me down onto the dry, cool grass.  
I feel like I'm in a dream, sitting by the lake at God-knows-when in the morning, feeling like a different person.

We don't talk. I watch the stars moving across the sky, keeping my mind blank.

All too soon, the sky lightens, and James takes my hand and tows me back up to the tower.


	8. Seven

_6__th__ January 1978_ _– later _

Oddly, my head feels much clearer after the sleepless night. Mary and I go down to breakfast together, but once in the Great Hall, she says, "I'll see you later," and hurries off to sit with Edwin at the Hufflepuff table.

I understand. She has Edwin, I have James. Things change.

I take a seat between Remus and James; the former offers me a plate of toast and the latter greets with me with a quick kiss, making no mention of our lakeside sojourn. The conversation is light and easy, Peter talking about his mother's newest husband and the others chiming in with jokes and sarcastic comments. It's comfortable; I can cope with it.  
But then I see Morris, sitting down at the Ravenclaw table, and my chest tightens. I want to – no, I_should_ – talk to him. Or do I actually want to? I don't know, I can't tell. But I know I'm _going _to, either way.

After lunch, I catch him as he heads out of the Great Hall alone. He starts as I grab his arm, but doesn't go for his wand. He looks … empty, his eyes dull, skin grey.  
"Sorry," I say, letting go of him. "Look – I know we don't know each other that well, but I thought – maybe – you might want to talk?"  
I'm expecting him to hesitate, or shake his head, but he just sighs and says, "yes, all right."  
We head out of the Entrance Hall and into one of the disused ground floor classrooms. He sinks down at a desk, but I stand, too jittery to sit. I'm realising that I don't have a plan, don't know what I'm going to say – but it'll help to just talk, surely?  
"I – I'm really sorry," I say, knowing as I say it that these are empty words. "She … she was happy, so happy, with you. I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now …"  
"Even I don't know," Morris says, with a shaky little laugh. "I'm so confused. It doesn't feel real at all, I suppose because I've only been _told _about it. It feels like it's happening to someone else, to be honest, and –"  
He pauses for a moment, seeming to wonder if he should carry on.  
"- and I feel so _guilty_, Lily! I feel guilty because I don't feel I can mourn properly. It feels so disconnected, so – so – I don't know, I can't explain it – I want to talk to _her! _She'd _tell _me how I was feeling, she'd understand, she's so confident and assured, she always knows exactly what to say …"  
His use of the present tense isn't lost on either of us.  
"And," he says suddenly, "I feel guilty because – well, it was because of me, wasn't it? I know her parents were activists, but they weren't the only ones. No – it was me, it was to punish me. There are children of _his _followers here, perhaps even followers themselves, and they must have known that we were – we were to be married – so they punished me for daring to marry a pureblood."  
He shakes his head, lips trembling. My heart is thumping. I think he's right. The best way to hurt someone, I'm realising, isn't to kill them, but to kill their loved ones.

_6__th__ January 1978 – later still  
_  
I could avoid James, go somewhere quiet and think about my options, but that's not how I do things. Instead, I wait until he's finished eating dinner, then drag him up to his dorm. Once again, I haven't thought through what I'm going to say, and once again, I'm too jittery to sit. I pace up and down the room as he sits on the bed, looking as confused as I feel.  
"I know I said before," I begin, "that I didn't care if the Death Eaters made you a target because you were with me. But I wasn't thinking straight then – of _course _I care! Of course I do! I don't want you to die! I can't even imagine – but it'd be my fault! They're punishing the Muggleborns, they're torturing them, and the easiest way to do that is to get at the people they love! I love you so much, and I – I won't have you die because of me, James, I won't. I can't."  
"Are you saying you're ending it?" James asks slowly.  
"I – I think so."  
He nods, his face pensive. "Well, you do make a good argument. There's just one problem …"  
"What?"  
"I'm not really keen on the idea of not being with you," he says, deadpan. "I mean, I've become quite fond of you, and I think I'd really quite miss having you around –"  
"_I _would miss having _you _around," I hiss, trying not to stomp my foot, "if you were _dead!"_

"Right," says James, undeterred. "But fortunately, I have a solution. I've been talking to Dumbledore, you see, and he's got a kind of – well, I suppose it's an army, really. Against Voldemort. And_apparently_, anyone who joins this organisation goes pretty much straight to the top of Voldemort's hit list."

How can anybody say that cheerfully? He is nuts.  
"So," he continues, "if I were to join, I would be an enormous target. And it wouldn't really matter who I was dating, or … married to."  
I sit down heavily on the bed.  
"You're definitely going to join?"  
"You know I am," James says, serious now. "I have to."

_7__th__ January 1978_

I feel like my life's been completely turned upside down and shaken thoroughly in the space of three days. It feels utterly bizarre to sit in lessons and do homework. There always was that something brewing in the outside world, and it affected me, but now – I feel like I'm actually in it, I'm a part of it, because it's about other people now. It isn't just about fighting people who want to kill _me_, it's about fighting people who want to kill my loved ones – who _have _killed my loved ones. And I'm damned if I'm going to let it happen again.

_8__th__ January 1978_

The Fawleys funeral is tomorrow, the _Prophet _says. McGonagall calls all the Gryffindors into a large classroom at the end of lunch to say that if anyone wishes to go, she will escort them there.

I don't know if I do. Do I?

I broach the subject in the dormitory later, as Mary's getting ready for bed. I'm already curled up under the covers, idly scratching Firmin's head as he purrs, but she's come in late, no doubt having been out with Edwin.  
"Oh, Lily, I don't know," she says wearily. "I feel as if I ought to, but …"  
"It hurts too much," I supply dully.

"Yes!" She flops down on her bed, looking much younger than eighteen in her pink nightdress, her fair hair loose around her face. "Honestly, I think I'd go to pieces seeing her – _there_, you know? It'd all seem real, and I'd rather it didn't."  
"I know what you mean," I say slowly. "But like you say – I feel as if I ought to … do you think she'd want us to be there?"  
"Oh, don't ask things like that, Lily!" Mary squeals, shaking her head furiously. "How am I supposed to know?"  
"Well," I say thoughtfully, "if it were your funeral – don't look at me like that, I said _if! _Just hypothetically! If it were – would you want us there?"  
"I … I _suppose _so," says Mary, rolling her eyes as if to say _why am I answering this? _"I suppose it would be _nice _to have you there, at my send-off. But we shouldn't be thinking like this," she continues, suddenly stern. "We should be thinking – optimistically! In fact, I think we should make a pact."  
"A pact?"  
"Yes!" She's remarkably enthusiastic now, given the conversation topic. "A pact that we will _not_attend each other's funerals. Because we won't be having them for – I don't know – at _least _another ninety years, and I expect we'll have long forgotten each other by then."  
In spite of myself, I'm smiling, and it feels good. "Probably."  
"So? You'll shake on it?" She stretches out her hand towards my bed.  
"I must be mad, but all right." I clasp my hand in hers as she says, "repeat after me – I swear that I will_not _attend Mary Macdonald's funeral, as by then I will be gloriously rich and living on some glamorous Spanish island with my husband James Potter, anyway."  
"I am _not _saying that last bit –"  
"You have to! It's the rules of the pact!"  
It's my turn to roll my eyes now, but I repeat her words anyway.  
"And _I_ swear that I will not attend Lily Evans's funeral, when she dies from – happiness, aged 130," says Mary, and she releases my hand. "There!"  
We're both laughing, a sensation that feels quite foreign these days, until we remember how this all came about.

"I think I'm going to go tomorrow," I say, as the smile fades from Mary's face.

"Say goodbye from me," she says quietly.

_9__th__ January 1978_

Severus's birthday, I think as soon as I wake up, and then, _Griselda's funeral.  
_  
I don't know what to wear, I realise when I get out of bed, feeling sick. My selection of robes is severely limited; I have my school robes, and then dress robes for Slughorn's parties, but they're royal blue, hardly appropriate. In the end, I take a pair of school robes and work a quick Severing Charm to get the Hogwarts crest off the front, so they're just plain black.

The funeral is in the Fawleys hometown of Ilkley, in Yorkshire. McGonagall ushers the Gryffindors (James, Sirius, Remus and Peter have all elected to come, to my relief, as well as a scattering of pupils from the younger years, including Barnabas Crewe) into her fireplace one by one, to travel by Floo powder to a small wizarding pub on the outskirts of Ilkley. We don't wait for the other Heads of houses with their students, but walk briskly through the town to the church, where a steady stream of black robed witches and wizards is trickling through the open doors.

This must be a wizarding church, I realise as we file into a pew in the middle, and then almost as quickly, I realise that I hadn't known there _were _wizarding churches. But surely no one would risk having such large moving photographs at the front of a Muggle church … I stare for a long moment at the photograph of Griselda, laughing wildly at something out of shot. It's only when James squeezes my hand that I'm able to look away. I don't want to look at what the photograph is standing on.

More and more people are coming in, some that I recognise and more that I don't. Morris comes past, white as a sheet, supported on either side by two plainly dressed people who must be his parents. Dumbledore appears, passes by our pew, says a few words to McGonagall, and then passes on to a few rows in front, where he sits down next to a couple who remind me of – no, it _is_ James's parents. They must have known the Fawleys too.

All too soon, every seat is filled, a mass of black, and a tall, dark haired wizard at the front starts to speak.

I'd planned to listen carefully, to take every word in, to be respectful and stoic, but the wizard is saying things about Mr and Mrs. Fawley that mean nothing at all and things about Griselda that mean all too much, and I'm crying, my breath catching in my chest, and I don't even think it's just because of where I am, it's because of _everything_. It's because this all reminds me of my grandmother's funeral, the first crack in my family's foundation. It's because it's Severus's birthday and I made all the wrong choices there, I was so _blind. _It's because life is going too fast and I don't know how to stop it. It's because I don't know what's coming next. It's because I'm seventeen years old and I'm in this world that is too powerful in all the wrong ways and they're putting my _friend _in the ground, and I'm not ready! I never said goodbye, I can't even remember the last thing I said to her, but she's _gone_, she's really, truly gone, her body – her _body _is there – and there's no life in it, none at all, and what was she thinking, when it happened? How is it that it can all be over so fast … just like that?

I'm not ready for this.

_9__th__ January 1978 – later_

The pub we came through is packed with mourners. A lot are sharing their favourite memories of the Fawleys, clinking goblets together, exchanging sad smiles, but I'm wedged in a nook with Sirius and Remus, none of us talking. I can see James through a cloud of smoke, engaged in conversation with his parents and Dumbledore; Peter is with his own mother, who apparently knew the Fawleys too. I can't see Morris and his parents anywhere.

It's an odd atmosphere. I feel drained, my face stiff with tears, but part of me wants to get up and join in with anecdotes about Griselda. Dumbledore was right, her life should be celebrated.

"Hi," says James, suddenly appearing out of the smoke. "Can I sit?"  
He crams his tall frame into a space between me and Remus.  
"All right?" he asks me, resting a hand on my knee. I shrug, not really knowing what the answer is.  
"What were you and your parents talking about with Dumbledore?" Remus asks.  
"Dumbledore was talking about the importance of being brave during times like these," says James, grinning briefly. "I think my parents are starting to be convinced that it's the right thing to do. They respect Dumbledore, in any case – I don't think they'd ever directly go against him."  
"So when do we actually get to _join?" _Sirius asks, a note of impatience in his voice.  
James takes his glasses off, rubs the bridge of his nose. "Soon."

Soon.


End file.
